Let It Be
by AfraidOfFalling
Summary: In which Snape finds one more reason to hate Halloween. Takes place during OotP - AU after that.  No slash. Rated for mentions of rape.
1. The Letter

I don't own HP. This story basically follows canon until midway through OotP, at which point, as you will soon see, something unusual happens...

* * *

Chapter 1: The Letter

_Early February, 1996 (the week before Valentine's Day)_

Snape sank into the threadbare sofa, emitting a weary sigh. He was not precisely comfortable in his current location, but the change was nice. Yes, the dim, tiny parlor with its dark, imposing, ceiling-high bookshelves brought back unpleasant memories of his parents, but for now it was better than the Hogwarts dungeons—reminder of the other half of his unhappy childhood and where the living embodiment of all his mistakes strutted about as if he were a monarch.

Sometimes, one had to pick one's ghosts.

He sipped a bit of red wine and opened _Potions Weekly_ to skim an article about improvements upon a common pain-relieving potion. It had been Dumbledore who had suggested for Snape to go home for the weekend; he had seen that the stress was getting to his potions master and spy. Snape, consummate workaholic that he was, had protested; however, he now had to admit that it had been a good idea. All his duties—classes, Slytherin House, the Order, spying on the Dark Lord, and those terrible and as of yet worthless Occlumency lessons—were lifted for a blessed few moments from Snape's stiff shoulders, and for the first time in months Snape found himself relaxing ever so slightly.

He'd forgotten how pleasant such a feeling was.

He perused the magazine for a while longer, periodically taking small sips from his half-glass of wine. Eventually, he put the magazine aside and got to his feet, stretching. Making his way to the kitchen, he methodically washed the glass and put it away before heading off to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

He slipped under his sheets a bit later and miraculously fell asleep within minutes. Not in years could he remember having had such a pleasant evening.

~.~.~.~

Snape, however, could never do Nothing for very long, so upon awakening on Sunday morning, he was soon dusting the bookshelves, organizing drawers, and sifting through closets.

As he organized the closet in his own bedroom, Snape saw a bit of crumpled parchment on the floor. He picked it up and opened it, curious.

_October 31__st__, 1979_

_I can't think. Which is why I'm writing; I think it might calm me down—allow me to figure out  
__what to do—where to go from here. I want to die right now. Never have I felt so—so terrible, so  
horrid, so filthy and monstrous._

_There was a fight tonight. Lily—Merlin, I can't even write her name, my hand is trembling so  
badly—well, she's safe, sort of. I mean, she's alive. And she's not a captive anymore._

_We were having a meeting, and the Order of the Phoenix found us. It's the first time I've  
actually seen Lily _with_ the rest of the Order. I tried to kill Potter, but failed. Now...now I feel  
ashamed to have attempted to kill him. Maybe he doesn't deserve her, but he certainly does  
more than I do._

_Anyway, a battle ensued for a bit, and eventually Lucius pulled me from the fray and led me  
down the hallway and into one of the unused bedrooms._

_Lily was there, bound securely, unable to move._

_Lucius grinned at me and proceeded to say something about how I needed to get my attraction  
for "this Mudblood" out of my system. He winked, and a flood of fury swelled up inside me._

_I forgot myself and punched Malfoy in the face._

_The next moment, I was on the ground, being Crucioed by the man who had just previously been  
my closest "friend" in the world._

_After my brief but thoroughly painful punishment, Lucius hauled me to my feet. All amusement  
was gone from his face—replaced by a contemptuous scowl. He threatened to tell the Dark Lord  
of the "depth of my infatuation," and said that it must end, tonight. He leveled his wand at me.  
My own was still on the floor; I had dropped it while under the Cruciatus._

"Imperio_."_

_I cannot write of what followed._

_Words cannot record the horror I felt when the Imperius Curse was lifted from me. Quickly,  
though, anger usurped the self-loathing, and, regaining my wand, I Stunned Lucius before he  
could react._

_I wanted to kill him. I am still not quite sure why I did not. Instead, I Obliviated his mind of the  
encounter and shoved his unconscious body into the hall._

_Then I did the hardest thing I have ever done: I faced Lily._

_She was still tied securely, and she was sobbing as quietly as she could manage. I located her  
wand and brought it over to her, releasing her from the bonds as I approached._

_She curled up into a fetal position and kept crying. I whispered her name, tentatively touching  
her shoulder. She merely trembled._

_I pleaded with her to sit up, to move, to get out of here. I would have apologized, but what could  
I possibly have said?_

_I glanced around the room and noticed, for the first time, a curtained window. Getting up, I  
examined it. The window, a ground-floor one, opened onto the property's backyard. It was a  
possible escape route—but how could Lily manage in her current state? For I could not leave  
without risking considerable danger—my master would see through me at once, and I would pay  
dearly for my transgressions._

_I saw movement across the yard. A wizard with untidy black hair and round glasses came into  
view._

_Never before in my life had I actually been _glad_ to see Potter._

"_Potter!" I hissed to him. His face turned toward me and darkened as he recognized me. He  
reached for his wand but was put off when I beckoned him over._

_Returning to Lily, I carefully lifted her in my arms and took her to the window. Potter arrived,  
and I transferred my Lily into his arms._

"_What happened?" He snarled, though his voice had less venom than usual in it, seeing as I  
was clearly helping them._

_I could not speak; I merely displayed the anguish on my face._

_Potter looked as though he wanted to question me further, but he abandoned the thought when  
sounds of battle were heard nearby. Shifting Lily's helpless body, he jogged away, taking her to  
safety. I watched until they were out of sight before closing the window and curtains. I left the  
room and found Malfoy still on the floor. Swallowing the urge to hex him into oblivion, I knelt  
and muttered an "_Ennervate_" at him._

_He shifted and sat up, looking about confusedly. He asked me what happened._

_My mask was firmly in place, and I was able to lie convincingly: "I don't know. You were  
unconscious when I got here."_

_He nodded and held out his hand for me to grasp to help him up. I obeyed the subtle order, and I  
followed the elder Death Eater back to the main rooms, to see what was going on._

_Apparently the Order had underestimated our forces, for we were victorious. Most of the Order  
had succeeded in retreat. There were only three deaths—two Order members and one Death  
Eater. The Dark Lord held us for a while longer at a different location before allowing us to  
return to our residences._

_And here I am now. And I think I _am_ a bit calmer. Though still I want to die._

_Will she be all right? And how can I live with myself? I fear that I cannot. I want, so terribly, to  
forget this._

_Perhaps that is the solution. A simple "_Obliviate_" and I will never know this happened. It will  
only be a nightmare that is beyond remembrance upon waking._

_Yes, indeed. Goodbye, terrible memory._

~.~.~.~

The 36-year-old Severus Snape was weeping. Crumbling the letter in his fist, he pointed his wand to his face, thinking to remove the letter from his memories just as his younger self had removed the actual event, but then he stopped. What good was it to forget?

This knowledge simply gave him more reason to hate himself and more reason to work in Lily's memory. He wiped his tear-stained face savagely. While he wanted no more than to curl up into a ball and die due to the knowledge of what he had done, he had to hold himself together. After all, it did not do to wear his heart upon his sleeve.

He looked again at the letter, rereading the date. Halloween.

Severus Snape hated Halloween.

And a mere two years separated the two worst Halloweens of Snape's remembrance—the other, of course, being that of 1981, when the Potters were murdered, and their son, a little more than a year old, became the savior of the wizarding world.

Wait.

Snape's breath caught as a thought occurred to him. A little over a year old, and two years between those Halloweens... When was Harry Potter's birthday? The end of the seventh month, of course—July 31st, 1980.

Nine months after Halloween, 1979.

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**A/N: Hiya, folks. This story is eleven chapters long. I have a completed draft saved to my computer, so I will update regularly—probably once every other day. I'll put chapter 3 out at the same time as chapter 2, as chapter 2 is quite short. Enjoy!**


	2. Worrying

Chapter 2: Worrying

Snape stood abruptly and began pacing about his bedroom.

Could it be? Was it actually possible that Harry Potter was his own son?

Certainly not, he tried to calm himself. Harry Potter looked exactly like James Potter. He looked nothing like Snape.

But then, Lily had always been good at Charms, and James was highly accomplished at Transfiguration (loathe as Snape was to admit it)—certainly between them, they'd have been able to disguise the child, if necessary...

Snape looked up from his musings, ceasing his pacing. The rest of Sunday would certainly not be restful, so he might as well return to Hogwarts so he could at least make it productive. There was no use arguing to himself about what-ifs.

Stuffing the letter inside his robes, Snape gathered his things and flooed back to his office.

~.~.~.~

An hour later found Snape staring aimlessly at an empty cauldron that he had set up for the purpose of making Pepper-Up Potion for the hospital wing. It was no use: he could not keep his mind from drifting back to the letter.

He placed his head in his hands, massaging the bridge of his nose. He tried to push the turbulent thoughts and emotions aside; he needed to regain control. What if the Dark Lord called on him tonight? He would have to be ready—calm, detached, perfectly in control.

And even if the Dark Lord did not call him tonight, he would have to face Potter tomorrow.

The mere thought of it made him nervous—to face the son of Lily, now knowing what he had done to her. The son that he was now not at all sure was James Potter's. The son that could, possibly, be Snape's own.

Snape returned the Pepper-Up ingredients to the cabinet and pulled out those for Dreamless Sleep instead. He would need it tonight.


	3. The Test

Chapter 3: The Test

Monday morning dawned bright and clear, utterly contrary to Snape's mood. He trudged up to the Great Hall for breakfast, failing to quell the dread that flooded his stomach.

It was not unusual for Snape to hate Mondays, seeing as he had Slytherin and Gryffindor fifth-years for a double period in the morning and Occlumency in the evening—a far too large dosage of Potter, as far as Snape was concerned. What he had learned the previous day merely compounded those feelings.

He ate quickly, ignoring both the students and his colleagues. As soon as he finished he fled back to his office to put his lesson plans in order for his morning classes.

Snape's first class went without incident, and his mood was improved through successful verbal abuse of some unfortunate Hufflepuffs. He had, for a blessed but short time, been able to completely block from his mind those things of which he wished not to think.

But now, striding with billowing robes toward the classroom door, where his most troublesome students were gathered (Draco whispering conspiringly to Crabbe and Goyle while Granger glowered at them, Weasley scribbling hurriedly on a parchment that Snape supposed was the essay due today, and Potter leaning against the wall looking insolent), everything came rushing back.

As he glanced at Potter, he felt a surge of anger. On top of everything else for which Snape hated Potter, now he had yet another reason: Snape could no longer look at or even think about Potter without remembering what Snape himself had done to Lily.

Potter matched Snape's glare as the professor swept past the children and entered the classroom. The students followed him in and sat down while Snape began issuing instructions for that day's task. He wordlessly collected their essays with a quick wave of his wand, smirking as Weasley issued a small yelp of dismay as the parchment piece upon which he was still writing flew out from under his quill. The fifth-years quickly settled to work and Snape started patrolling the classroom, warding off disasters by giving Slytherins helpful hints and by berating the Gryffindors.

Shortly after Snape successfully prevented an explosion of the potions of both Longbottom and Goyle, he noticed that Potter, too, was about to make a costly mistake. Swiftly gliding behind the boy, Snape reached out and grabbed Potter by his thick, untidy hair to stop him, albeit much more harshly than strictly necessary, from adding too much of a volatile ingredient. As he did so, he deftly pinched a single hair between his thumb and forefinger and pulled. In the midst of the unfriendly treatment, Potter did not notice the hair-extraction.

"Potter," spat Snape, "what do you think you're doing?"

The teen turned and glared loathingly at Snape once his hair was released. "Following instructions," the boy snapped. "Sir," he added reluctantly.

"Then why, Potter," the potions master sneered, "were you about to add eight milliliters of salamander blood when the _instructions_ clearly state that you need _six_?"

Potter squinted back at the instructions and turned a bit red, and he poured two milliliters back into the container.

Snape raised his voice—unnecessarily, as his little sparring already had the entire class' attention. "Does anybody know what would have happened had Potter added two extra milliliters of salamander blood?"

Draco smirked and raised his hand as Granger's hovered quivering in the air.

"Malfoy?" Snape drawled lazily.

"It would have blown up in your face, Potter." He spat the last word. "Of course," he added with malice, "that _could_ be regarded as an improvement..."

"Correct, Malfoy, five points to Slytherin." Granger put her hand down, pouting slightly, as Snape continued: "Excess blood would react with the sneezewort, which, if you recall from your essays earlier this year, is a plant commonly used to produce inflammation in the brain. Hence, combined with too much salamander blood, which is generally used to heal by increasing temperature and circulation, a substance would be produced that does not merely heighten the senses, as today's potion is designed to do, but would, if ingested, inflame the brain to an extent that would cause permanent damage, but while sitting on the table merely...explodes."

As Snape lectured, he returned to his desk and discreetly placed the hair inside a test tube and corked it before sliding it into a pocket in his robes.

~.~.~.~

When his class ended and the last student scurried off to lunch, Snape locked the classroom door and returned to his office. Perusing the shelf of potions texts that accompanied all the jars adorning his walls, Snape selected a book that looked likely to contain what he needed: _Tests for Assorted Ailments and Conditions_. He flipped it open and ran a slender finger down the index. His finger stopped at "Relatives' Test." He turned to the proper page.

_Relatives' Test_

_Developed by Orion Black in 1856 as a means  
__to ascertain the precise blood relationship  
__between family members, this potion uses a  
broad color palette to accurately identify the  
relationship between two persons—whether  
they be identical twins or fourth-cousins-twice-  
removed._

Snape nodded once to himself and retrieved the necessary ingredients from his cupboard. The potion was straightforward and relatively simple; he had it completed within twenty minutes. He ladled the colorless potion into a clear flask so as to best see the results. Snape wrapped a stringy hair around a finger and tugged it from his scalp, dropping it into the flask. Then, he took Potter's hair and added it as well. He gently swirled the liquid within the flask, and it gradually took on a color.

When it was finished, the potion was a bright, vibrant gold. Snape consulted the book's color scale and felt his throat close.

Gold represented the Parent-Child relationship.

Potter was a Snape.

**A/N: DUN DUN DUN! Wow, what a big surprise. You readers probably knew that by the end of the first chapter. Anyway...**

**Sneezewort was mentioned in OotP, Chapter 18, in the fifth-years' Potions textbook, along with scurvy-grass and lovage, as being "moste efficacious in the inflaming of the brain" and often used in Befuddlement Draughts and such. Salamander blood is used in the Strengthening Solution the class is making the day that Umbridge inspects Snape's teaching. According to **_**Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them**_**, ****salamander blood has "powerful curative and restorative powers." I thought to myself, "self, salamanders are creatures that dwell in fire (according to **_**Fantastic Beasts**_**); hence, why shouldn't salamander blood have the effect of increasing temperature, thus increasing circulation by expansion of blood vessels, thus healing and restoring cells by providing ample nutrients and oxygen? This would explain why it is used in the Strengthening Solution, as it would increase the amount of oxygen the user's cells would receive, thus enabling the user's muscles to work at their maximum ability. Then, coupled with a small amount of sneezewort or related plants, more blood would reach each brain cell, which might heighten the senses, assuming that the sneezewort does not inflame the brain too much and the salamander blood does not increase the temperature too much." But I'm not a biologist, neuroscientist, or potions master, so this is probably all cow manure. = P**

**You know you want to review. Really. You do. You live for reviewing. Just like I live for your reviews.**


	4. Occlumency

Chapter 4: Occlumency

Snape put the book away and vanished the potion. He still had time to grab some lunch, but he was not hungry. Trying desperately to shut out all the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him, Snape feverishly began readying his lesson plans for his afternoon classes.

He inadvertently upset a pile of graded essays he had planned to hand back to his seventh year NEWT students that day: the essays were swept off the desk and Snape reached out his hands to catch them but missed—they collided with the tips of his fingers and scattered across the floor in disarray. As he scrambled to pick them up, he smeared blood along the margin of one of them. He looked at his hands and realized he had sustained a deep paper cut on the inside of his right thumb. The sharp pain of the cut was a welcome relief and served to somewhat calm Snape's nerves. He sank into his chair and breathed deeply, arranging his face into a mask of calm indifference. He bent down and retrieved the soiled essay and removed the blood with a simple "_Tergeo_." Bringing his hand up to his mouth, he pressed his tongue against the paper cut, tasting the bitter, unpleasant flavor of his blood and enjoying the stinging sensation on his thumb that quickly dissipated as his saliva came into contact with the cut. Normally he'd have just taken his wand in his other hand and healed the wound immediately, but there was something comforting in nursing the thumb for a minute or two in the manner he used to before he was allowed to use magic.

Snape held the wound against his tongue for a few moments more before removing it, swallowing away the blood's metallic taste and examining the cut as more blood welled up around it in a voluminous bead of crimson liquid. He took his wand in his left hand, repairing the skin and removing the blood. With a weary sigh he collected the fallen essays and shuffled them back into a neat pile. He glanced at the clock and saw that he had better head toward his classroom, so he gathered the necessary parchment and left his office.

~.~.~.~

At six in the evening Snape was once again in his office, gazing pensively at the empty Pensieve atop his desk.

Three minutes and fourteen seconds past six, there was a knock on the door. Snape nonverbally opened the door and sneered at Potter, who was trying to conceal his heavy breathing.

"You're late," Snape snarled.

Green eyes filled with abhorrence glared at the professor as the teen stepped into the office and closed the door. Potter knew by now that excuses and halfhearted apologies would only worsen the situation, so he said nothing and waited sullenly while Snape placed four memories into the Pensieve. Snape saw a flicker of surprise and curiosity cross Potter's face as the last silvery tendril of thought fell into the basin, but the brat proved not so foolish as to comment.

"Have you practiced?" asked Snape in a tone that plainly assumed the truthful response would be a negative.

"Yes, sir," Potter said stiffly, staring stonily at a point on Snape's shoulder. It was quite clearly a lie, and Snape was annoyed—not just because Potter had evidently not practiced, nor because the student had lied—but because it was so terribly easy to see through the lie. If Potter had made any progress whatsoever in Occlumency in the past month, he'd have much better lying skills to show for it.

Snape's anger was building to an even greater height. He was so invested in the fate of Lily's son—his _own_ son, he had to remind himself—and yet despite Snape's pains, Potter made absolutely no discernable effort to learn.

Snape took a breath to calm himself, locking away the anger under his smooth, apathetic facade as he surveyed the teen before him.

What would it take to make Potter learn? Snape had previously assumed that he _couldn't_ make Potter learn, because Harry Potter had evidently inherited the obstinate stupidity of James Potter. Now, it was clear that Harry Potter could not have "inherited" anything more than money and charmed looks from Snape's school enemy. So was there, perhaps, a way to make the boy learn?

Snape thought of himself. His own best subjects were Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts—why? It was because there was an art to them—a beauty—a music. They were a dark melody of power and potential acceptance. With mastery of those subjects, Snape could _be_ somebody. He would not be a victim; he would not be alone.

How could this relate to Potter? Potter already was "somebody," and he was never alone. How could Snape's musings be useful to Potter?

Ah. There it was. Usefulness. Those subjects were, to Snape, _useful_—a gateway to another world that would, with luck, gaze upon him more favorably. Perhaps Potter, too, could appreciate usefulness.

"Sit." Snape commanded. Potter sat, thrown off: usually the entire lesson was spent standing—or getting up off the floor after falling, wincing with the pain of freshly bruised knees.

"Do you think that that lie was at all convincing, Potter?" Snape sneered.

Potter glared stubbornly at an unfortunate jar of dead cockroaches. "I didn't lie, sir."

"Then why are you staring at a jar of dead cockroaches?" Snape countered in a soft, dangerous voice.

Potter flailed for a moment before coming up with a suitable—albeit highly disrespectful—answer. "Just not looking forward to having you rape my mind."

Potter had certainly meant to be impertinent, to strike back at the serpent who was endlessly tormenting him with his venomous words, but Potter had no way of knowing how much that statement would affect his professor. A surge of anger and self-loathing burst from Snape.

"GET OUT!" He screamed, his face twisted by a torment worse than that which the Cruciatus could inflict. "_GET OUT!"_

He hurled the jar of cockroaches at the doorframe as Potter fled. Shards of glass and dead creatures exploded outward as the door slammed shut; they fell to the floor to rest in a thousand shattered pieces. Snape's knees buckled and he collapsed, cutting his palms on the fragments of glass, and for the second time in as many days, he wept.

**A/N: No, I do not mean to insinuate that Snape is a vampire. I was just playing on his detail-driven mind to use the paper-cut to get a hold on himself.**

**Snape was about to try explaining to Harry that Occlumency would make him a better liar and then proceed to lecture about how necessary it was to defend his mind against You-Know-Who, but as you can see, he did not succeed in getting that far. I wasn't expecting this chapter to go in this direction; I thought they'd actually resolve something this lesson, since Snape would be a little more reasonable and even more persistent in trying to protect Harry. Apparently Harry had other ideas... = (**


	5. The Vow

Chapter 5: The Vow

The portrait swung open and Harry clambered through, panting with exertion. After sprinting up the first staircase from Snape's office, Harry had jogged the rest of the way to Gryffindor tower, afraid to linger anywhere near Snape's domain. Sighing in relief, he stepped over to where Hermione and Ron were sitting and flopped into an empty armchair. They looked up.

"Hey, mate!" Ron said, grinning. "You're back early!"

Hermione frowned as she peered at Harry over her book. "Did something happen, Harry? You're out of breath, and your lessons are never over this early."

Harry sighed. Trust Hermione to ask the obnoxious questions.

"Yeah, Snape threw me out."

Hermione sat up quickly, dropping her book. "What? Why? But he has to keep teaching you, Harry. Dumbledore said—"

"—Yeah, yeah, I know," cut in Harry hurriedly to stop Hermione from going into full lecture mode. He felt a flicker of annoyance. _Dumbledore said so_. But where _was_ Dumbledore now—why had he been ignoring Harry all year?

Hermione sighed. "All right, I won't lecture. But what happened?"

"Oh, well, he accused me of lying, and I got angry and talked back to him, and he threw me out." Harry didn't mention that Snape was correct in his accusations. If Hermione knew he hadn't been practicing, he'd never hear the end of it.

"Git," Ron offered, earning him a grateful smile from Harry and a reproving glare from Hermione.

"What did you say to him that would make him throw you out?" Hermione pressed.

Harry had to think about it. It wasn't as if, back in Snape's office, he'd really thought hard, "hey, what could I say that would really drive Snape mad?" A thought had simply occurred to him, and he'd said it. Hence, it took him a couple of seconds to be able to accurately answer Hermione.

"Oh yeah, er, I said something about how I wasn't looking forward to him raping my mind." Ron sniggered in appreciation. Hermione, however, looked scandalized.

"Harry!" She hissed so vehemently that several first-years sitting nearby looked at her in alarm. "That's not—that's a terrible thing to say! I mean, rape is serious, Harry—it's not funny—it's not a _joke_!" She threw Ron a venomous glare to make him stop laughing.

"Well, it _is_ like he's raping my mind. He's taking a look at all my memories without my consent!"

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "We're being serious, Hermione. Harry's getting his brain ravaged by Snape twice a week, and they're calling it 'teaching.'"

Harry could swear there was electricity crackling in Hermione's hair. He couldn't understand why she was so upset. "It's not rape, Ron! Professor Snape is trying to _help_ Harry—to protect him from Voldemort!" Ron flinched at the name. "In a way, you could say that Snape's trying to make sure _Voldemort_ can't rape Harry's mind—but Snape's certainly not!" She turned to Harry, her expression dead serious. "Harry, you need to go and apologize to Professor Snape."

"No!" Harry exclaimed. "He'd kill me!"

"But Harry, you've got to! That was an awful thing to say! And," she added, "you need to make sure he'll still give you Occlumency lessons. Dumbledore wants you to stop having these dreams!"

"Hermione, just let it go!" Harry said firmly. He felt so frustrated. He was angry with Snape because—well, when wasn't he? And he was irritated with Hermione for refusing to let it be, for arguing with him, and for repeatedly mentioning what _Dumbledore_ wanted. Finally, Harry was upset with Dumbledore. He just felt...abandoned. And it made him irate.

Hermione tried to keep arguing, but Harry cut her off. "I'm tired," he snapped, even though it was barely 6:30 and he hadn't completed any of his homework. "I'm going to bed." He stomped off to the dormitories, fuming. He wished he could talk to Sirius. No, scratch that—he wanted to talk to his dad. But that couldn't happen: Voldemort had taken care of that. And neither Dumbledore nor Snape nor anybody else had done a thing to stop him. Did Dumbledore really care about Harry at all, he wondered, or would Dumbledore let Voldemort kill everyone else Harry cared about, too?

Harry slowly drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

He was pacing in a room whose only light flickered from a small array of candles. Anxiety clawed at him: something had been off tonight, and he had to find out what it was. He watched the door, waiting.

At last it opened, and a man stepped in, clad in shadowy black robes. The man knelt in the candles' circle of wavering light and removed his hood, revealing greasy black hair and a long, hooked nose. He kept his eyes averted from Harry.

"My Lord," He murmured reverently, "You wished to speak with me?"

Harry's mouth curled, displaying his teeth in a sinister smile. "Yes, Severus," he answered, striding silently toward Snape, "I have some questions for you."

"Anything, my Lord," the man responded, his eyes still on the floor.

"You have always been calm and confident, Severus. Always. Even if anxiety pervades the mind of every other of my servants—you remain calm. Yet tonight..." Harry trailed off. "Look at me, Severus."

Snape raised his cold, black, expressionless eyes to Harry's.

"What is troubling you?" Harry's voice was arctic and dangerous.

"It is nothing, my Lord—I am merely tired, as Dumbledore continues to assign me tedious tasks."

"Ah, yes. The great Albus Dumbledore," Harry sneered. He let out a mirthless laugh. "Tell me, Severus, how are those Occlumency lessons coming along?"

Snape allowed his mouth to twitch at the corners. "Perfectly terribly, my Lord. Potter is, if anything, worse now at Occlumency than he was when his training first began."

Harry narrowed his eyes at Snape's, and saw flashes of disastrous Occlumency lessons. His satisfaction grew, but he yet had his suspicions.

"Excellent, Severus," he praised. "But I have another question for you," he persisted, gazing carefully into Snape's eyes. "I sensed something from you tonight that I have not sensed from you, Severus, since the night I returned." A slight amount of perplexity clouded Snape's face. Harry continued: "I sensed, Severus, fear."

For a brief moment, Harry saw it again in Snape's eyes before it vanished. Harry stepped even closer to Snape and placed pale, spidery fingers under the Death Eater's chin.

"What are you hiding from me?" Harry whispered, and apprehension appeared on Snape's features.

"My Lord," Snape began. "My Lord, I apologize that I tried to conceal it. I admit I feared to tell you. Recently I came across knowledge that—startled me." He paused, thinking over his phrasing, and curiosity welled up inside Harry. "My Lord...forgive me, but I cannot help but recall that—" Here Snape paused again, and took a breath before continuing. "—That the last time I...told you of my affections..." He trailed off and glanced up at Harry, and Harry understood.

"You fear that I might have her killed."

Snape nodded shortly. "Forgive me, my Lord."

"And who is this woman that has attracted your notice, Severus?"

Snape hesitated. "It is not a woman, my Lord." Harry raised an eyebrow. "No, I don't mean—I have just found out, my Lord, that I—that I have a son."

This was surprising, indeed. "A son, Severus?" Harry asked. "With whom?"

"The woman is of no consequence," Snape spoke dismissively. "It is merely my son for whom I worry."

"What is his name?"

"Perry," Snape responded. "Perry Thorat."

Harry began to walk in a circle about Snape. "Is there any particular reason that you fear for his safety?"

"No, my Lord, only that—forgive me—you have seen to destroy the last person whom I entreated you to spare."

Harry stopped in front of Snape. "So, Severus, you wish for some manner of reassurance that I will not harm your son?"

Snape answered with some hesitation. "Yes, my Lord."

Harry appraised the man kneeling before him. Severus was among his most gifted servants. "What sort of reassurance do you desire? I may be able to give it."

"My Lord," whispered Snape, rather hoarsely, "if I may be so bold—I wonder if you might consider making—making the Unbreakable Vow."

Harry inhaled sharply. Bold, indeed. He was surprised that the man dared suggest such a thing. But yet...perhaps he owed Severus for that unfortunate occasion when that foolish girl had refused to step aside. So long as there was no danger that he would ever break the Vow, why not relieve his servant's paranoia?

"This Thorat does not attend Hogwarts, correct?" Harry questioned.

"No, my Lord."

Harry considered for a moment, and then smiled thinly.

"You have been a good servant to me, Severus. Lord Voldemort rewards his servants, and I grant your request." Snape's face showed his relief.

"Wormtail!" Harry called. A short, hunched man shuffled through the door, cradling one hand in the other as he so often did. The man looked up at Harry.

"Y-yes, my Lord?" He stuttered.

"I shall make the Unbreakable Vow with Severus. You shall be our bonder."

Wormtail looked astonished. "Y-yes, my Lord," he repeated. He took a wand from the folds of his robes. Harry offered his hand, and Snape grasped it with his own. Wormtail brought the wand over top their linked hands. Harry gazed steadily at Snape, who took a deep breath and spoke.

"Will you, the Dark Lord, spare my son, Perry, in the event that his life becomes endangered?"

"I will," said Harry, and flame shot from the wand to twine about their hands.

"And will you ensure that none of your followers attempt to harm him?"

"I will." A second flame wound about the first.

"And will you never enact a plan whose purpose is to bring harm, whether emotional or physical, or death to my son?"

"I will," finished Harry, and a third flame coiled about the others.

Harry awoke with a start, alarmed. He looked at his hand. It was not white and spidery; it was not immersed in flaming ropes—it was an ordinary hand with a pale scar that read, "_I must not tell lies_." His own hand. Harry shuddered and tried to get back to sleep, but it eluded him as he contemplated this latest vision.

**A/N: If you're wondering, this is **_**not**_** an anti-Dumbledore fic. I love Dumbles; he's among my favorite characters. Still, during much of OotP, Harry felt very much abandoned by Dumbledore, and his feelings of loss often turned to anger, which is why Harry was so angry with him in this chapter.**

**Explanation to why Ron said Occlumency was twice a week: While at Grimmauld Place, Snape said that the Occlumency lessons would be held once a week. However, we know that the first week Harry has Occlumency both Monday and Wednesday (perhaps Snape realized, after the first lesson, that Harry was going to need a significant amount of instruction?), and the Occlumency lessons throughout January are described as "regular." I'm not sure if that was meant to mean that Harry continued to have Occlumency lessons twice a week, every Monday and Wednesday, or not, but HP-Lexicon seems to think he had Occlumency nearly every Monday and Wednesday until Snape's Worst Memory, and I figure they probably have a good reason for thinking that.**


	6. Discussion

Chapter 6: Discussion

"I've got to tell you and Hermione something," Harry muttered to Ron on the way to breakfast.

Ron glanced at him sharply. "What? Did you have another vision? Hermione was worried you might, since you were so riled up last night."

Harry nodded and grimaced. He felt bad about how angry he had been with Hermione. It wasn't really her fault.

"Great, does this mean she'll be telling us, '_I told you so_?'"

Ron scowled. "Probably. So what happened? Since you didn't wake me up, I'm guessing it wasn't like the one with Dad—nobody got hurt?"

"Yeah." Harry frowned. "It was really weird, though. Let's eat fast, and then we can go somewhere where we won't be overheard. You won't believe it."

Fifteen minutes later, the three were lounging in the courtyard.

"All right, Harry, spill it," complained Ron.

"Spill what?" Hermione asked. "Oh, no, Harry, you didn't have another vision, did you?"

"Yeah, I did."

"See? I told you, Harry, you've _got_ to keep learning Occlumency! You really need to talk to Snape—"

"—Which brings us to the subject of the actual vision," Harry broke in.

"Wait, Snape was involved?" Ron asked curiously.

"Yeah. I was Voldemort, which was really creepy, but anyway, Voldemort was in this weird, dark room and then Snape came in—"

"—Wait, did you say you _were_ You-Know-Who?" Ron asked, mouth agape.

"Yeah. I was seeing everything from his eyes, and I was feeling all his emotions and stuff."

Ron stared at him. Hermione was silently pensive. Harry went on.

"So Voldemort asked about my Occlumency lessons, and get this: Snape said that they were going 'perfectly terrible,' and that I'm worse now than when I started!"

"I knew it!" hissed Ron. "He is _such_ an evil git!"

"Ron," Hermione cautioned, "let's hear the rest of the story before ranting."

"And then Snape told him he had a son!"

"Wait, what?" Asked Ron, baffled.

"Who?" Asked Hermione. "Snape has a son, or Voldemort?"

"Oh. Snape. Sorry."

Ron and Hermione gaped at him.

"I know! Isn't that mad? Yeah, he says he's got some kid named Perry somebody—doesn't go here."

"How old is he?" Hermione questioned. "The son, I mean."

"Didn't say. Snape seemed, I don't know, outright scared for the kid. And get this—apparently Snape asked Voldemort to spare some woman at some point in the past, but Voldemort had her killed instead!"

"Oh!" exclaimed Hermione. Ron and Harry looked at her in mystification. "Well, it's just that that explains some of his bitterness."

Ron raised his eyebrows. "Oh, so just because he didn't get some girl, we should forgive him for being a complete git?"

"And Hermione," added Harry spitefully, "It's not as if he was in love with her. He couldn't be—that would require him to have a heart!"

Hermione huffed in irritation but let it slide. "So was that all?"

"No. Snape got Voldemort to agree to an Unbreakable Oath or something..."

"An Unbreakable Vow?" Ron asked with astonishment.

"Yeah. What is it?"

"Well, you can't break an Unbreakable Vow..."

"Yeah, I'd worked that out for myself, funnily enough. What happens if you do?"

"You die," answered Hermione. "There's a sensation that warns you if you're coming close to breaking it, but you can still break it if you really want to. I can't believe that Voldemort would ever agree to one!"

"So, what was the Vow?" Ron urged.

"Er, there were three parts. One was to spare Snape's kid if he were ever in danger, one was to make sure none of Voldemort's supporters harmed the kid, and the last one was really wordy...something about not ever doing anything that was designed to hurt the kid? It seemed rather redundant."

Ron was shaking his head in wonder while Hermione frowned in thought.

"What did you say Snape's son's name was? Percy?" Hermione asked. Ron looked affronted.

"Perry," Harry corrected.

"Do you remember a last name? It wasn't Snape, right?"

"Right. It was something weird. I'd never heard it before."

"Perry..." Hermione muttered. "Perry..." Suddenly her eyes widened. "I wonder..." She stared past Harry's and Ron's heads, an expression of contemplation and growing excitement o her face, but the bell rang before Harry or Ron could ask what she was doing. They packed up and headed for class.

**A/N: As I'm sure you noticed, I stole some dialogue from HBP. I also had Harry misquote Snape, because it is such a common mistake to use an adjective when an adverb is needed, and I figure that Harry isn't a grammar snob.**

**I'm not sure if Hermione's explanation of the Vow is how it works in canon. I got the idea of the spell giving the oath-taker a warning from another fanfic—I forget whose it was or what that fic was about. I liked the idea, since it gave an explanation as to why Snape came so quickly to Draco's aid after Harry used Sectumsempra.**

**Let me know what you think! = )**


	7. The Report

Chapter 7: The Report

Snape cursed under his breath as he hurried toward the Great Hall. The Dark Lord had called him in the dead of night; thus, Snape had fallen asleep even later than usual and had overslept. As it was, there would be no time for breakfast and barely time to give Dumbledore a report.

He strode through the doorway just after Potter, Granger, and Weasley exited, noticing that Potter gave him a strange look as they passed. Snape wondered if it was due to their Occlumency lesson last evening or to another episode of Potter lacking the necessary skills of Occlumency to keep himself from seeing into the Dark Lord's mind. He hoped it was the former; he did not desire to explain his actions to the boy.

He reached the High Table and grabbed a few slices of toast, casually glancing at Dumbledore as he did so: to be any more overt would risk interference from Umbridge. Snape left immediately, exiting the castle and strolling beside the lake, eating his toast. Two minutes later Dumbledore caught up with him.

"Good morning, Severus," the headmaster greeted him, smiling.

Snape ignored the pleasantries and began talking. He had been so thoroughly stunned by what he had learned in the past two days that he had felt unable to confide in Dumbledore: this conversation was long overdue.

"He called last night." Snape filled Dumbledore in on the details of the main meeting, and then paused. Dumbledore's piercing eyes peered into Snape's. "The Dark Lord pulled me aside. He asked after the Occlumency lessons, and was delighted with the truth," Snape sighed with exasperation.

Dumbledore frowned. "Still no progress, then?"

"Indeed. But that's not the important bit." Dumbledore's eyebrows rose inquisitively. Snape continued, "The Dark Lord had noticed that I had been afraid."

Dumbledore looked at him sharply. "Afraid, Severus? Why?"

"I told him the truth." Snape took a breath. "Dumbledore, on Sunday I found a letter that I had written years ago that revealed that I have a son. I had wiped it from my own mind." Dumbledore was surprised—a rare moment for the man. "I told the Dark Lord that I feared for my son's life, since the Dark Lord had not previously respected my wishes upon whom he should spare. I told him I wanted assurance that he would not harm my son, and he decided to grant it to me in reward for my loyalty. He made the Unbreakable Vow."

Snape had never before seen Dumbledore's jaw drop open. He stifled a small smile. After several seconds Dumbledore found his voice. "Unbelievable, Severus. What did he swear?"

"To spare my son should he be endangered, to ensure that none of his followers harm him, and to never enact a plan whose design is to physically or emotionally harm or kill my son." There was triumph in Snape's voice as he summarized the terms, and Dumbledore finally voiced the question Snape knew had been burning in his mind:

"Who is your son?"

Snape smirked. "I told the Dark Lord his name was Perry Thorat."

Dumbledore stared at Snape. "That's—that's not an anagram for—for Harry Potter, is it?"

Snape kept smirking. "Indeed."

"But—" sputtered Dumbledore. "—He's not—you're not his—?"

"—Oh, hear that? That's the bell. I must be going: I've got classes to teach." Snape turned and marched away, leaving Dumbledore standing motionless, staring bewilderedly after him.

~.~.~.~

Snape stowed a fresh stack of essays in his desk and stood up to go to lunch. He was walking toward the door when it opened and Dumbledore admitted himself. The older wizard waved his wand, and a plush armchair appeared before Snape's desk, into which Dumbledore sank. He steepled his fingers and gazed steadily at Snape with twinkling eyes that seemed to say, "Now, now, dear boy, you know I don't like being kept in the dark—do enlighten me." Snape sighed and sat back down, opening a drawer and pulling out the letter. He handed it to Dumbledore, who adjusted his half-moon glasses on his nose and settled down to read. When he finished, he looked back up at Snape with tears in his eyes.

"Oh, Severus..." he whispered.

Snape looked to the floor. Dumbledore got to his feet and walked around the desk to stand over Snape, placing a hand on the potions master's shoulder. The gestures would have made Snape angry had they come from anyone else, but from Dumbledore they were somehow a comfort. It was a difference, perhaps, between pity and compassion. Snape knew, on some deep, intuitive level, that Dumbledore truly understood what Snape felt—had been there before—had experienced that crushing sense of overlapping grief and guilt that weighed down on his soul, leaving him floundering for air. The two men remained silent and motionless for a long moment.

Snape broke the silence. "Yesterday I conducted a test that identified Potter as my son."

Dumbledore let his hand drop. "You've had quite the two days."

"Indeed."

Dumbledore returned to his chair and sat. "Well, congratulations."

Snape stared at him in disbelief. "For what?"

"For coming up with and executing a brilliant plan," Dumbledore responded, some twinkle making its way back into his eyes. "I do think it will work. It's much simpler and neater than anything I'd been planning; I am actually rather jealous that it was not me who came up with it."

Snape felt some of his misery slide away as he remembered his successful bid at ensuring Lily's son's safety. "Thank you, Headmaster."

"You're very welcome," Dumbledore replied, smiling. "I presume you intend to continue with the Occlumency lessons?"

Snape nodded. There were yet others besides the Dark Lord that could harm Potter, and of course additional visions could damage the boy emotionally: Occlumency was still something that would be beneficial for Potter to learn.

"Good, very good. Now, come, my dear boy, it is high time we get to lunch."


	8. Encouragement

Chapter 8: Encouragement

"I don't understand why I need to apologize to him, Hermione," Harry insisted. "I told you what he said—isn't that proof enough that he really is evil?"

It was Wednesday, and the three were walking toward the Great Hall for dinner.

"Look, Harry," Hermione pressed, "Snape's not evil, he just had to pretend in front of Voldemort. He's on our side—I just know it!"

"I don't get it." Ron was shaking his head. "How can you possibly stick up for Snape this time? Harry knows what he saw."

"Why do you two find it so surprising that a spy would act like a genuine Death Eater while in Voldemort's presence? Harry, Ron, I _know_ that Snape's looking out for Harry's best interests." The boys snorted in disbelief. Hermione sighed. "I mean, he tried to save Harry's life first year, remember? Why would he have done that if he were really on Voldemort's side?" The others still looked skeptical. "Look, I've got another reason to trust him, too...but I can't tell you what it is."

"Huh? What is it?" Ron asked.

"I said, I can't tell you! Just believe me, all right? I know what I'm talking about it. Harry, please talk to Snape."

Harry and Ron looked at each other, bewildered. By now they had reached the entrance hall. While they were crossing it, however, a voice rang out.

"Potter!"

"Speak of the devil," Harry muttered, and he turned to face Snape.

"I expect you in my office at six o'clock sharp. Merlin knows you still require more remedial potions."

Harry scowled, but at Hermione's jab, sullenly answered, "yes, sir."

Snape swept ahead of them and entered the Great Hall, and they followed, though Harry now did not feel all that hungry.

~.~.~.~

At 5:59, there was a knock at Snape's door.

"Enter," he called.

Potter shuffled in, shutting the door behind him. Snape examined the boy and frowned: Potter's body language showed that he was anything but conducive to learning in his current state—his body radiated anger and wariness. Snape was determined that this lesson would see some progress, but he was not sure whether his determination would be enough.

"Sit," he ordered, and the boy obeyed, less surprised this time.

"Why are you here, Potter?" Snape asked calmly, almost aloofly.

Potter was puzzled. "You asked me to come, sir."

"That's not what I meant. Why have you been coming here twice a week for the past month?"

Potter glanced at Snape warily. "So I can learn Occlumency." Snape raised an eyebrow. "Sir," the teen added belatedly.

"And why, Potter, must you learn Occlumency?"

"'Cause Dumbledore said so." Snape noticed a trace of bitterness in Potter's voice and wondered about it.

"Why does Dumbledore say so?"

"Why does Dumbledore do anything?" This time the bitterness was loud and clear. Snape considered questioning the boy about it, but decided it could wait.

"Do you recall what I told you of Occlumency during your first lesson?"

The boy exploded. "Look, why are you doing this, Snape? What's with the inquisition? I know you don't actually want me to learn—you just want to make it easier for Voldemort to get into my mind!"

Snape cringed. "_Don't say the name!"_ He hissed.

Potter snarled back. "What? Can't bear to hear your master's name? Afraid he's going to Crucio you or harm your precious son?" Ah, so he _had_ seen it. This would take some explaining. Potter continued his rant: "You might be able to fool Hermione and Dumbledore, but I see you for what you are, you filthy Death Eater!"

When Potter finished, there was silence. Snape stared impassively at the teen for a few seconds. "Are you done yet, Potter?"

The boy glared at him.

"I'll take that as a yes. Ten points from Gryffindor for your disrespect." Potter leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, his mouth set in a tight, angry line.

"I do care that you learn Occlumency, I would rather that the Dark Lord stay out of your mind, I indeed cannot bear to hear the Dark Lord's name although he is not my master, I cannot say I wish to suffer the Cruciatus, and I eagerly await the moment that the Dark Lord attempts to harm my son. Does that answer your questions?"

Potter stared at Snape with a mingled expression of confusion and disgust. "You 'eagerly await the moment' that he hurts your kid?"

Snape rolled his eyes. "Think, Potter. If the Dark Lord attempts to harm my son, what will happen?"

Potter looked blank for a moment before his green eyes suddenly lit up in understanding. "He'd break the Vow."

"And therefore, he would..."

Potter stared at him. "...Die? Isn't that a bit too simple? Why didn't someone do that years ago?"

Snape glowered in exasperation. "Potter, do you not realize how very close I was to dying a very painful death that night?"

The boy did not answer. Snape sighed. "Potter, I made what should have been an incredibly costly mistake that night by letting the Dark Lord sense my fear. If I had made even one more mistake that night, I would not be here right now. I lied to his face, Potter. I told him I had no real reason to fear for my child's safety. Do you realize how dangerous it is to attempt to outright lie to the most accomplished Legilimens the world has ever seen? Nobody has attempted to trick the Dark Lord into breaking an Unbreakable Vow because everyone has assumed, correctly, that it would be nearly impossible to get the Dark Lord to agree to an Unbreakable Vow, particularly one that he would certainly break. I tried it because I had already made an error, and the only way to recover from that error was to give the Dark Lord some semblance of the truth—that is, that I feared for my son's safety at his hand. Given that my fear indicated that I cared deeply about the matter, and given my previous experience with asking for another's amnesty, I _had_ to offer the Dark Lord a way to assure me that he would not break his word this time. Otherwise he would suspect that I was not loyal to him. Still, asking for the Vow was incredibly dangerous—had I not been careful, he would have seen it as insolence or even treason against him, which would not have had a pleasant outcome for me."

Potter sat, somewhat stunned, taking it all in.

Snape took a deep breath. "And that brings us back to Occlumency." He peered again at the boy, whose face clouded with apprehension at the mention of Occlumency. "Do you understand yet why it is so important for you to learn it?"

The teen hesitated, as if he thought saying "no" might get him out of having to do it. "Yes," he mumbled finally.

"Good. Now stand up, and take out your wand." Potter complied, still apprehensive, as Snape stored four memories in the Pensieve. Snape thought Potter looked a little weary. This state would be little better for practicing Occlumency than the earlier anger. Snape studied him for a moment, and decided to alter his approach.

"Potter, I'm going to do this a little differently than usual." The boy frowned. "Before, I was ruthlessly attacking your mind, hoping to trigger your natural tendency to fight back against me. However, it has not been working the way I intended—you have merely become angry and resentful, without fighting against the intrusion itself. This time, I am going to enter your mind more subtly. I want you to accustom yourself to that feeling, become familiar with it, and then try to make me get out. Do you understand?"

"I think so, sir."

Snape raised his wand and murmured, "_Legilimens_."

This time, memories flashed before their eyes in a softer, more leisurely way. The memories, too, were less stressful: Potter was walking in the corridor listening to Granger and Weasley bicker good-naturedly; he was flipping the bacon in a frying pan; he was falling asleep over a Charms essay. Suddenly Snape saw the memories waver. After a few seconds they dissipated, and he was looking into the brilliantly green eyes of Lily. For a moment Snape thought Potter had somehow broken into Snape's own mind, until he realized the eyes were, in fact, the boy's.

Snape nodded to him. "Well done." Potter looked surprised and somewhat gratified. "I think we'll stop there for tonight. Remember, rid yourself of emotion before you sleep, and I'll see you here next Wednesday."

When Potter had left, Snape sank into his chair and sighed, running his hand through his greasy hair. That had gone rather well—especially compared to past lessons. Snape had kept his own temper under control, and Potter had successfully pushed Snape out of his mind. Perhaps now that the teen had done it once, it would be easier for him to do when Snape pushed harder.

He selected a quill and grabbed some essays to grade. For the first time following an Occlumency lesson, he felt encouraged.

**A/N: On the next Monday (the one directly following Valentine's Day), Harry doesn't have Occlumency after dinner in canon—he goes straight to the Gryffindor common room to attend to his homework. For the purposes of this story, I'm going to assume Snape had to be somewhere that wasn't really worth mentioning, like some sort of boring staff meeting in which Umbridge annoyed the heck out of everyone but nothing really happened. Hence, the next time Harry will see Snape is on Wednesday.**

**Please review! Positive or negative**—**I love them all! = )**


	9. The Attack

Chapter 9: The Attack

The following Wednesday, Potter was right on time for Occlumency, but Snape found very quickly that this was not due to a sudden desire to learn. The teen was tired, distracted, and annoyed, and had not been trying to clear his mind each night (though that did not stop him from attempting to lie about it).

Snape entered Potter's mind slightly more strongly than he had the week before. At first, Potter seemed to be doing well: the memories were light and harmless—eating breakfast in the Great Hall, laughing at some stupid prank of the Weasley twins, walking down the door-less hallway opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy—but then, as Snape watched Potter strolling down to Hogsmeade with Cho Chang, the memories started to take a turn for the worse. Snape saw an angry, teary Chang yelling; then his own face staring upward, lit by flickering candlelight in an otherwise dark room; then Arthur Weasley lying in a pool of blood—Snape lifted the spell, and Potter crashed hard onto the stone floor, gasping.

Snape supposed he should feel a bit guilty about this, but instead he was annoyed. Why did the child find it so impossibly difficult to control his emotions? Did he think he was the only person in the history of the universe to have been dealt a thoroughly foul hand of cards by life?

Potter slowly got to his feet, wincing. Snape studied him. He thought the boy now did have a full understanding of the importance of these lessons, so apparently seeing that they were "useful" was not enough.

What else might work better? Snape narrowed his eyes, thinking. He had been told that the boy was relatively talented at resisting the Imperius Curse. A small lump formed in Snape's throat—that stubbornness, that willpower, was certainly something Potter had inherited from his mother.

Stubborn, indeed. Could Snape perhaps harness it?

Without telling Potter what he was about to do, Snape pointed his wand at Potter and stated, "_Imperio_." Potter obediently started performing jumping-jacks.

In the middle of the third, Potter abruptly stopped and rounded on Snape.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

Snape merely smirked. "Tell me, Potter, why is it that you are fully capable of throwing off the Imperius Curse, yet you are utterly abysmal at blocking a Legilimens from your mind?"

Potter glared at him but did not have an answer.

Snape was exasperated. "Potter, you are good at resisting the Imperius Curse because you are remarkably stubborn."

"Like my 'filthy father,' right?" Potter snarled sarcastically.

"No. Like your mother."

"Oh, so now you're insulting my mum, too?" Her green eyes flashed furiously on his face.

"Potter, I just said that that stubbornness—also known as a strong will or determination—is what allows you to fight off the Imperius. What makes you think that that was an insult?"

He felt a spark of satisfaction at the surprise on the boy's face.

"You may be able to put that same obstinacy to good use against Legilimency," Snape continued.

"Now, Potter. Obviously, you do not want me inside your mind. Focus on that—rid yourself of any emotion except that you do not want me in your mind.

"_Legilimens_!"

A tall, thin figure was rising from a cauldron in the middle of a graveyard—and then Snape was staring into Potter's eyes again.

"Good," Snape said, nodding once. "Again," he continued, giving very little time for preparation, "_Legilimens_!"

A young Ginny Weasley was lying apparently lifeless on a stone floor—the echoes of Diggory and the Potters shimmered in the night—Ron Weasley lay dead on the ground—Snape lifted his wand, and Potter fell once again.

"What was the last one?" Snape questioned.

"The one with Ron?" The boy asked tiredly. Snape nodded, deciding to ignore that Potter had not called him "sir." The boy was, after all, Snape's son (the thought even now took him by surprise). "Just a boggart," the boy shrugged.

"Your boggart is of Weasley, dead?"

"No, it was someone else's."

An awkward silence ensued as both wizards attempted to think of something to say. Snape exhaled in exasperation, wondering as he did so how many times he had been "exasperated" in the past week and a half. "Potter, what am I going to do with you?"

"Sell me out to Voldemort, probably," Potter muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for Snape to hear. Snape winced at the name, but kept silent about it this time.

Snape lowered himself into his chair. "No, Potter, I will not do that."

"Why not?" Lily's eyes narrowed warily at Snape.

Snape hesitated, considering saying "it's none of your business to know," but the fact remained that it probably _was_ the boy's business to know. "Let's just say I have a vested interest in keeping you safe, Potter."

The boy did not lose his wary look, but he did rub his forehead, almost absently.

"What is it? Is your scar bothering you?" Snape asked, a strange tone entering his voice.

Now Potter looked surprised. "No, it's fine, sir." Snape noticed the renewed usage of respectful titles, and also the slight frown upon the teen's face. Potter reached his hand halfway to his head again, but dropped it quickly with a sharp glance toward Snape.

Snape was growing concerned, and uncharacteristically allowed it to show on his face. He stood back up and approached Potter. "No point lying about it, Potter," he persisted curtly. "I can tell it hurts you." He reached his hand toward the boy's scar, and Potter stepped backward. Snape let his hand fall back to his side. "Potter, I can help you, if you tell me what's wrong." He peered into the teen's face. Suddenly Potter screamed and crumpled to the floor, clutching his forehead with both hands. Alarmed, Snape knelt beside him as the boy went limp. He took his son's head in his hands and looked into his eyes. Briefly they were blank, but then they were full of something alien and hostile, and Potter spoke.

"So, Snape," he hissed menacingly, and Snape stumbled backward. "You show your true colors at last. Is this a recent switch in allegiance, or have you always truly been in Dumbledore's pocket?"

"M—my Lord," Snape stammered, "I—I don't know what you're saying—"

"Don't you?" snarled Potter. "I saw it, Snape. You care for him. You care for my enemy. That makes _you_ my enemy."

Snape was simultaneously terrified and repulsed. But he was also angry—furious that the Dark Lord would dare attempt to possess Snape's son. He forced the fear away and glared into Potter's eyes.

"What are you going to do about it?" he growled. "There are only two ways you can hurt me, you fool. Killing me won't hurt me; neither will torturing me. The only ways you have to hurt me is by harming my son—which you can't do without breaking your Vow—or by harming Potter. And Merlin knows you've tried that numerous times, and failed."

The Dark Lord's mirthless laugh escaped from Potter's mouth, and suddenly Potter was still. Snape waited, watching the figure intensely. For two seconds, nothing happened.

Then, Potter screamed in pain, his body writhing on the floor. The screaming suddenly intensified, crescendoing into what Snape could only describe as a death scream.

Potter was once again suddenly supine, and Snape bent toward him, his heart in his throat. Potter could not be dead. Snape could not have killed his own son.

He roughly pressed two fingers into the side of Potter's throat. He held his breath, exhaling in relief when he felt a weak pulse beneath his fingers. He sat back and watched his son's body, his own heartbeat settling as he registered the rhythmic movement of Potter's chest as the boy breathed.

He reached forward with his left hand and brushed Potter's hair from his eyes. He suddenly became aware of a vague tingling on his forearm, and he tugged back his sleeve.

The Dark Mark was gone.


	10. Meetings

Chapter 10: Meetings

Once a minute had elapsed, consisting of Snape gazing with relief at Potter's breathing figure, the door opened, and Dumbledore swept in. Snape supposed one or more of Dumbledore's silver instruments had alerted him that there was a situation, for the headmaster did not seem to be surprised to find Snape hovering over Potter's nearly motionless body.

"Is he all right?" Dumbledore asked sharply.

"He's breathing, but he is very much unconscious." Snape responded colorlessly.

Some of the tension left Dumbledore's body. "What happened?"

"The Dark Lord found out about my true loyalties. He possessed Potter, and I told him the only way he could hurt me was by hurting Potter. He left, and shortly thereafter Potter began screaming. When he stopped, he was unconscious. My Dark Mark has disappeared."

Dumbledore's blue eyes pierced into Snape's. "Show me," he commanded, and Snape bared his forearm. Dumbledore stared at the unblemished skin for a moment, and then spoke. "I will take Harry to the hospital wing, and then alert the Order and Cornelius. Meet with the Death Eaters; make sure Lord Voldemort is truly finished, and stall the Death Eaters long enough for me to arrive."

Snape nodded and stood, striding to the fireplace. Behind him, Dumbledore gathered up Potter's form, and both wizards left Snape's office.

~.~.~.~

Snape made his way inside the derelict building that was the Dark Lord's headquarters.

"Severus!" He heard behind him, and he turned to see Lucius Malfoy hurrying toward him. "What has happened?"

"I do not know," Snape responded, his black eyes glittering.

Together they entered the parlor, bracing themselves against a terrible burning smell, and saw a half-circle of Death Eaters surrounding Wormtail's short, hunched figure, which was standing over two unmoving bodies on the floor.

"Wormtail!" Malfoy snarled, pointing his wand at the Animagus. "What have you done?"

Snape ignored them and moved toward the forms. The Dark Lord's body was sprawled across the floor in front of his favorite armchair, and Nagini was lying half-in the crackling fireplace, her corpse burnt and charred.

Wormtail, meanwhile, was backing away from Malfoy and the other Death Eaters. "I—I didn't do anything!" he squeaked fearfully. "I was dusting the bookshelves in the library, and I heard a strange noise, and then my—my hand disappeared—"

Wormtail's right arm ended in a stump, rather than the Dark Lord's gleaming silver hand. The man held his arm close to his chest, cradling it in his left hand, which also held the wand he had been using for the past months.

"—I—I was afraid, and I went to investigate, and I came in here and they were—they were dead." Wormtail was terrified, trembling wildly, but all the Death Eaters that possessed any amount of cognitive capability could tell that he was being truthful.

Snape pushed his way through the ribbon of Death Eaters and crouched before the Dark Lord's corpse. His eyes were visible: his crimson irises still and blank. His pale skin was already turning gray, and his hands were open—his wand lay six inches away from his spidery fingers. Snape glanced up at the Death Eaters, his face solemn. Bellatrix was staring at him, barely breathing, silently asking a question she could not bear to put into words.

Snape nodded curtly to her, a slight frown on his face. "Yes. He is dead."

She took a shuddering breath and stumbled forward. Collapsing at the Dark Lord's side, she began keening—a high, terrible sound of grief, fear, and fury. Suddenly she stopped and stood up, turning toward the group of Death Eaters, and they were all startled by her countenance—contorted now in wrath and madness. She pointed her wand toward the first wizard she saw, Wormtail, and screeched: "_CRUCIO_!"

Wormtail crumpled to the floor, his body and limbs twitching and flailing as he shrieked in agony.

Snape watched impassively for a few seconds before approaching Bellatrix and placing his hand on hers. He gently applied pressure, and she slowly lowered her wand. Wormtail lay crying and gasping on the floor, curled in a fetal position.

Bellatrix breathed in silence for a few moments. When she opened her mouth, she spoke lowly, threateningly: "I will find out who did this," she snarled, glaring at each wizard in turn. "I will find out who killed my Lord, and I will make him suffer." She started laughing: a maniacal, desperate laugh. When she stopped, the silence in the room was broken only by the continued crackling of the fire.

She turned toward Snape, distrust still flickering across her eyes. "Where was Harry Potter? And Dumbledore?"

Snape shook his head. "Potter was in my office, serving a detention. I dismissed him when I felt my arm tingling. Perhaps Dumbledore had something to do with it, but I rather doubt the old fool would ever be capable of destroying our Lord."

"Nonetheless," she spat, "I'll make sure they both—" Suddenly the parlor door crashed open, and wizards crowded in, casting Stunning spells in every direction. Dumbledore entered, his tall figure crackling with electricity, and waved his wand. The Death Eaters, Snape included, found themselves bound tightly, unable to move. They could speak, however: Bellatrix was screaming curses at the top of her lungs, her voice echoing insanely around the room.

Dumbledore stepped through the room and flicked his wand at Snape, releasing him. He then approached the remains of the Dark Lord and turned back to his entourage.

"Well, Cornelius?" Dumbledore enquired. The Minister stepped forward, winged by Aurors, his face suffused in disbelief.

"It's—it's him..." Fudge whispered. "He really was back."

"And—and he's dead?" one of the Aurors questioned.

Snape nodded. "Yes, he is dead."

"How?" Asked Moody from the corner of the room.

Dumbledore smiled at Snape. "Severus here convinced Lord Voldemort to make and break the Unbreakable Vow."

Bellatrix' voice reached new heights as she registered Snape's betrayal. Snape noticed the murderous glares each Death Eater threw his way. Well, almost each. Wormtail, still lying on the floor, looked at him in shock and awe. Malfoy's eyes were narrowed at him, as if seeing him for the first time, but there was something in his countenance akin to hope, and Snape knew the man expected him to ensure his freedom. Malfoy would be disappointed.

What—" stammered Fudge, "—what about Sirius Black? Is he here?" He peered around at all the prone Death Eaters.

Dumbledore opened his mouth to respond, but someone beat him to it.

"Sirius is innocent," called Wormtail in a trembling voice. He was staring at the Minister, terror and resolve displayed in equal amounts on his face.

"Pardon?" Fudge responded, put off. "What do you mean? He killed thirteen people!"

"No—no he didn't." Wormtail answered. "He didn't kill those people." He paused, afraid, but then plunged on. "I did."

"You did what? Who are you?"

"Peter Pettigrew. I'm Peter Pettigrew, and I m—murdered twelve Muggles, and I fr—framed Sirius Black."

"What? But—but—" the Minister sputtered.

"Peter speaks the truth," Dumbledore told him. "Sirius Black is innocent. Actually, he's in my Order. We left him at headquarters in case we failed to acquire evidence of his innocence tonight."

Fudge was speechless. Dumbledore continued, "Well, Cornelius, I feel certain that you and your Aurors can handle things from here. I really must be getting back to the school." With that, he nodded his head in farewell to the Minister and strode decidedly toward the door, stopping briefly and crouching beside Wormtail. Snape, following closely behind the headmaster, heard Dumbledore murmur, "Well done, Peter. That was very brave." He then straightened and left, followed immediately by the non-Auror members of the Order. Snape smirked at the silence that trailed in the headmaster's wake.


	11. The Decision

**A/N: I made a small change to chapter 6, when Hermione hears about the Vow—Bsum1 let me know that Hermione's thought process seemed unreasonable, so I've fixed it. It's pretty minor, but Hermione no longer starts writing things down. Thanks again, Bsum1!**

Chapter 11: The Decision

One would have thought Hogwarts was a beehive, for all the buzzing issuing continuously throughout the halls. Article titles such as "Harry Potter Was Right," and "You-Know-Who: Returned, Only To Be Destroyed" captured student and professor attention alike. Umbridge could not do a thing about it, for she had been removed from her position as Hogwarts High Inquisitor. She still maintained the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts, but the students were fully aware that she had lost the great majority of her authority and power, and they happily ignored her attempts to quiet them. Madam Pomfrey, however, had managed to block all the noise from the hospital wing—the atmosphere of the infirmary was calm and quiet. Snape brought Poppy a fresh supply of potions, glancing conspicuously toward the bed where Potter was still unconscious. The boy had been in a coma for three days, but now, Snape had heard Pomfrey assuring Black, Potter was merely sleeping, and she expected him to wake quite soon.

Granger and Weasley were at his bedside. Granger had the _Daily Prophet_ in her hands and was rereading an article that explained that all charges against Sirius Black had been dropped, and that the Ministry was in the process of deciding how to make amends for Black's wrongful twelve-year imprisonment. A large mound of cards and candy were piled precariously on a table beside Potter's bed, and Weasley was fiddling with the wrapper of some type of garishly-packaged sweet.

Snape was about to leave, when he noticed Potter stir. By habit, he quickly concealed himself in a shadow. The boy blinked his eyes and shifted his arms; Granger was so surprised, she dropped the newspaper.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, beaming. "You're awake!"

Weasley grinned in relief. "About time, mate."

"Wh—why?" Potter asked. He tried to reach for his glasses, and Granger handed them to him. "How long was I out?"

"Over three days, Harry," Granger informed him. "We were so worried!"

Pomfrey heard their voices and hurried toward them. "Ah, Mr. Potter. Awake at last." She pulled out her wand and began examining him. "Shoo, you two, Mr. Potter needs his rest."

Weasley grumbled and the two retreated to give the nurse space, though they made no move to actually leave the hospital wing.

As she worked, Pomfrey began asking Potter questions. "Now, Mr. Potter, what do you remember?"

Potter mulled for a second, and then gasped. "Snape—Snape's office...I—Voldemort—" He paused, apparently at a loss.

Pomfrey peered at him before turning to Weasley and Granger. "You two, go tell the headmaster that Mr. Potter has awakened.

Pomfrey finished her examination in relative silence, only enquiring briefly if Potter had any pain or discomfort and the like. Within minutes, Potter's friends returned with Dumbledore, whose eyes twinkled knowingly as he passed Snape's hiding place. Dumbledore conjured a chair at Potter's bedside and sank into it, smiling.

"So, Harry. How are you feeling?"

Potter stared at Dumbledore in some confusion. "Why are you being nice to me, sir? You've been so...so distant." Potter spoke rather sharply and then averted his eyes, appearing rather abject.

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore responded, his eyes losing some of their twinkle. "Forgive me, Harry. I was trying to protect you from something that—well, apparently happened anyway." He paused, and Potter peered at him expectantly. "I feared that, if Lord Voldemort suspected that we had a close relationship, he might use you in an attempt to spy upon me. I did not wish for you to go through such an experience. Alas, while he did not employ you to spy on _me_..."

"Oh," replied Potter weakly.

"So, are you all right, Harry?"

"Y-yes. Er...what exactly happened?"

Dumbledore frowned. "Can you tell me what you remember?"

"Er...I was in Snape's office for Occlumency, and my scar started hurting, and Snape was asking about it..."

"_Professor_ Snape, Harry," Dumbledore reminded him.

"Right. Anyway, then the pain got a lot worse, and I—he—Voldemort was speaking through me. Possessing me?" He shot an inquisitive look toward Dumbledore, who nodded. "All right, so Voldemort was talking to Snape, and he was really angry—furious—and then he left. A couple of seconds later, I was in agony, but somehow it increased—it was worse than the Cruciatus—and I—I was in around seven places at once—" Potter paused, trying to figure out how to explain it. "—I—well—I felt like I was dying. But a bunch of times, not just once...I don't know how to explain it..."

"I think I understand, Harry. Continue," prompted Dumbledore.

"Er...I was in a chair in a room with a fire in the fireplace, and I fell to the floor...this was at the same time that I was _on_ the same floor, writhing; I could feel the heat of the fire...I was also in two different rooms crammed with junk...one was full of valuable-looking stuff, like gold and silver; the other was filled with ordinary things, like a stone bust and an old broken cabinet...I was also inside a really dark place that felt really small, like maybe a box? And I was in another dark room, too...it looked like...like Kreacher's den in Grimmauld Place...but I was also myself, or at least in my own head..." Potter trailed off.

"And you were dying in each of these places, all at the same time?" Dumbledore clarified.

"Yeah," the boy answered. He seemed relieved that Dumbledore did not seem remotely fazed. "So, er, what happened?"

Dumbledore took a deep breath. "Well, Harry," he began. "Remember that diary you destroyed in your second year?"

"Yeah...it had a memory of Riddle in it."

"Ah, well, Harry, I have reason to believe there was a bit more than just a memory in that diary. You see, my boy, I believe that diary was an object known as a Horcrux. A Horcrux is an incredibly Dark object that contains a part of its maker's soul."

"The diary had part of Voldemort's _soul_ in it?"

"Indeed, Harry. But that's not the only Horcrux Lord Voldemort made. He made seven Horcruxes, though I think one of them was accidental. I believe—though I have no evidence for this conjecture—that Lord Voldemort thought that having his soul in seven parts would make him incredibly strong."

"Why did he think that, sir?"

"When a wizard has made a Horcrux, it means that he cannot die unless the Horcrux is also destroyed, because part of his soul is still tethered to Earth. Living with a split soul, however, goes against nature...the soul is horribly mutilated, terribly broken. Lord Voldemort, as you know, had his sights set on achieving immortality, and he thought that his Horcruxes would allow him to succeed, as all six would have to be destroyed in addition to the part that resides in his body for him to die."

"But you said he had a seventh Horcrux."

"Yes, Harry. You see, on the night Lord Voldemort killed your parents, his soul, already rendered highly unstable by the creation of numerous Horcruxes, split, and a piece departed from his body and attached itself to you. You were a Horcrux Lord Voldemort never intended to make."

"So I...I still have a part of his soul in me?" Potter was alarmed, and reached up to touch his forehead.

"No, Harry. Don't worry. Three nights ago, all six remaining Horcruxes, in addition to the piece of soul in Lord Voldemort's body, were destroyed. You witnessed their deaths due to the connection this scar" –Dumbledore lightly touched the lightning bolt on Potter's forehead— "gave you to Voldemort and every piece of his soul."

"So...he's dead? For good?"

"Yes, Harry." Dumbledore smiled over his half-moon glasses. "He's never coming back."

Potter frowned, puzzled. "But...but why did he die? What happened?"

"Lord Voldemort broke an Unbreakable Vow." Snape twitched in his unseen corner. "The magic of the Unbreakable Vow is that it affects the _soul _rather than the body; thus, although Lord Voldemort's soul fragments were scattered across unknown distances, breaking the Vow affected—and _destroyed—_every single one of them."

"Huh? You mean, Voldemort tried to hurt Snape's kid?"

Dumbledore hesitated; he clearly had not realized that Potter had known about the Vow. Snape hoped he would avoid telling Potter of his parentage; he could not imagine that the boy would be pleased. Snape knew what it was like to have an unpleasant, greasy git for a father.

"Yes."

"But Voldemort was hurting _me_, not Snape's kid!"

"Ah, yes, but in hurting you, Voldemort was unconsciously hurting Professor Snape's son." The boy looked like he wished to question Dumbledore further, but Dumbledore held up a hand. "I apologize, Harry, but to tell you anything more would be to betray Professor Snape's confidence. I have told you all I can."

The boy looked disappointed, but he brightened as he asked, "sir, can I see Ron and Hermione, now?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, and he beckoned to Weasley and Granger, who were hovering near the doorway. They jogged over toward Potter while Dumbledore murmured a goodbye to the boy and left. As the teens were entirely focused on each other, Snape was able to slip out of the shadows unnoticed and join Dumbledore in the corridor outside the infirmary.

"Thank you, Dumbledore," Snape said quietly.

The headmaster nodded, but frowned. "You're welcome, Severus. But do you ever intend to tell him?"

Snape snorted. "No. As if he would want me for a father. He is better off not knowing." Snape kept his eyes averted.

"Has it occurred to you that the thing he wants most in the world right now is a father?"

"He would not want me," Snape stated firmly.

"So what are you going to do?"

"The same as I have been doing for all these years. I will protect him, but more or less anonymously. No good would come of telling him, Dumbledore. Let it be."

Snape strode away toward his dungeons, his cloak billowing behind him. Dumbledore stared after him, and his eyes slowly began to twinkle...

Fin

**A/N: When I first wrote this, this was definitely the end—there was not to be a sequel; the rest of the story would have been entirely up to your imagination. However, things change, and I have quite a few details regarding the sequel. Its name, to continue my mindless thievery of titles from the Beatles, is Come Together. Come Together will be substantially longer and more complex than Let It Be. Don't expect me to publish very soon; I've got a lot on my plate right now. = (**

**Questions? Comments? Concerns? Suggestions? They are each greatly appreciated, and there's a convenient little button at the bottom of this page...**


	12. Sequel Alert and Next Chapter

**A/N: The First Chapter of the sequel, Come Together, is OUT! Yay! Finally! And since it's against the rules to just have a "chapter" consist of A/Ns, I present to you approximately half of the first chapter:**

Come Together

Chapter 1: Caution, or Lack Thereof

~.~.~.~

It is strange when the sun manages to beat _coldly_ down upon something, especially when it is almost summer, but this was precisely what the sun proceeded to do. For after all, not even a huge, burning sphere of gas can quite extinguish that chill which turns one's insides to prickly ice at a dementor's mere approach; thus, when one remains in a dementor's company for prolonged periods, the sun's starkly-bright vigil, by reminding you of that unattainable warmth, does indeed manage to increase the cold one _seems_ to feel.

So the sun beat coldly down upon Azkaban, and the witches and wizards locked tightly within the prison's walls flinched away from the sun's freezing warmth and light and cowered into the deepest, darkest shadows of their cells. There was one prisoner, there for so long that his identity was lost even to himself, who called the sun The Light Creature and spoke the title with a fear far surpassing that which is inspired when one considers the usual Dark creatures. And indeed, many of Azkaban's prisoners came to fear the sun more even than they feared their guards, those terrible dementors. Many wizards, upon viewing this phenomenon, have suggested that the terror stems from the blackness of the prisoners' souls—that a soul such as those jailed within Azkaban shrivels at the touch of the sun's rays of pure, good Light. Pragmatic sorts have often countered that idea, arguing that if such a thing were true, our souls would all shrivel, at least a bit, in the sun's presence; these wizards have then begun wondering about the possible spiritual ramifications of sunburn.

Meanwhile, the prisoners of Azkaban spend their days screaming, crying, laughing, and plotting as they slowly, torturously, inevitably lose their sanity.

~.~.~.~

**Thanks for your support!**


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